I Have Mental Illness

Reads: 287  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short short-story.

Submitted: June 20, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 20, 2014

A A A

A A A


I Have Mental Illness

by Michael A. Donovan

 

 

"You have mental illness;" those words rang through my head. I have mental illness, I thought to myself, then I laughed, then punched the nearest wall: the wall of the psychiatrist's I had just exited. People looked at me. Stared. All the other crazies who are coming in or walking out of the building, and passer's by.

"What the fuck are you looking at?!" I screamed in the face of an old woman. She was scared out of her old mind, either from my anger or she just had dementia.

My knuckles were pink, and pained - especially when I opened my hand. Small amounts of blood trickled out from underneath the hanging skin. A red circle ran around my wrist where I could feel a sprain. My head pumped. A headache - pounding - beating - like a drum. Everything felt different. In my vision, the city around me became circularly shaped. My eyes began to lose focus - and everything became blurry.

 

I kept walking down the street, through traffic and people, the pavements and roads were congested. I lost the track of time. I lost direction. Sense was lost as irrationality overcame me. I was suddenly overwhelmed by an alternate force. But I was still me. I was not in control, however. I walked, and walked for miles as night fell silently.
 

I continued to walk to where the trains hastily move in hopes of escaping the city as speedily as possible. I stood there in front of the tracks, and, as if a heavy gust of wind crept up from behind - an invisible force - pushed me. I fell forward - my own doing from any other man's perspective. But, I know I did not willingly surrender myself to such a deathly fate.

 

Then - the tracks that I rested on, as if in death's waiting-room, shook. Two headlights approached in a fast manner. I tried to move, failing in my short-lived attempts. I tried one last time, pushing my self as hard as I could, then said to myself: "Why bother, I have mental illness."


© Copyright 2020 Michael Author Donovan . All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Comments

More Literary Fiction Short Stories